Rivals
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Mycroft has always had to best Sherlock at everything. But when it came to Molly Hooper, Sherlock thought it was completely understood that she was to remain firmly in HIS hip pocket. Until Sherlock stumbles upon the fact that his brother and his pathologist have become confidants. And the worst part is, in Mycroft's case…it might not even be on purpose. Set after"Sign of Three."
1. Chapter 1

_Mycroft has always had to best Sherlock at everything. But when it came to Molly Hooper, Sherlock thought it was completely understood that she was to remain firmly in HIS hip pocket. Until Sherlock stumbles upon the fact that his brother and his pathologist have become confidants. And the worst part is, in Mycroft's case…it might not even be on purpose._

 _Set after "Sign of Three."_

Rivals

Molly stared at the rivulets of rain coursing down the glass. She blinked slowly, her whole body heavy and numb. Absently, she ran her left hand thumb along the underside of her third finger…

Still no ring. Just as there hadn't been a ring the last fifty times she'd automatically rubbed that spot that afternoon. And she couldn't seem to make herself stop.

Thunder rumbled over the roof of the hospital. Rainwater gushed down the grey streets and sidewalks outside. Cabs splashed through puddles, their headlights bouncing. Inside the lab, all stood still and silent and empty. No one had been killed today. Perhaps the only bright spot about any of this. Molly took a deep breath, fingering the edge of her lab coat, but didn't stir from the spot by the window. She hadn't for a long time.

 _Ding._

She jumped, bit the inside of her cheek, then forced herself to reach inside her coat pocket. Her heart gave three hard bangs, dread pounding through her…

 _Please don't let it be him again…_

She opened the text…

Released her breath in a rush and put a hand to her forehead.

 _ **How are you today, Miss Hooper? –MH**_

Fighting to keep her fingers from shaking, she typed an answer.

 _ **Less than perfect, but I'm fine. Thank you, Mycroft. –M**_

She could see right away that he began typing a reply.

 _ **Less than perfect is unsatisfactory. May I inquire as to the reason? –MH**_

Molly swallowed again, and sank into a nearby plastic chair.

 _ **Just got un-engaged. Over lunch. –M**_

Her vision blurred and she pushed at her eyes. When she opened them again, he'd already answered.

 _ **Tea? –MH**_

Molly let out a watery laugh, swiped at her eyes again and nodded.

 _ **Sounds nice. What time? –M**_

 _ **Your earliest convenience. Diogenes Club. –MH**_

 _ **I will be there at six. –M**_

 _ **Understood. –MH**_

Molly glanced at the clock. Only half an hour left until she was supposed to leave—but nobody would begrudge her half an hour. Not today.

She got up, headed out to the lockers and hung up her coat, then gathered up her effects and left St. Bart's.

She caught a cab home, again watching the rain play across the window, and didn't even feel the water as she traipsed up the stairs to her flat. She changed clothes, put her hair in a ponytail, ignored any thought of food, and put on her raincoat and wellies and grabbed her umbrella. The next minute, she was out the door, the falling drops pattering against the canvas roof of her umbrella, her feet splishing through the water rushing across the walk, heading toward tea, a warm fire, and Mycroft.

MHMHMHMHMHMHM

"You walked all this way?" Mycroft frowned at her as the attendants took her dripping umbrella and coat from her. "I could have sent a car."

"I don't mind," she assured him, bending down to pull off her wellies. "The mood suited. Today."

He didn't comment, just stood by as she raised herself up again—but as she took a step, her shoes squelched. She stopped, and winced.

"Apparently I've got a hole in each of my boots…"

"Well, take your shoes and stockings off as well," he motioned to them, then raised an eyebrow at her in dead seriousness. "Honestly, Molly. What would Mary Poppins say?"

She snorted and reflexively smiled as she pulled off one shoe, then the other.

"Only you might know," she murmured. She caught a glimpse of one of Mycroft's half smiles—an extreme rarity—as he turned from her and stepped further into the fire-lit room.

A roaring fire filled the throat of a broad hearth just off to her left, spilling light onto the rich red rug before it, and coating the two neighboring armchairs with buttery warmth. In front of the two chairs stood a table spread with a silver tea setting, and the spout of the pot steamed. Molly trailed after Mycroft in her bare feet, enjoying the feeling of the carpet. She might have been deeply embarrassed at actually walking bare-footed across the hallowed floors of one of the oldest and poshest gentleman's clubs in England—if this had been the first time such a thing had happened. But it wasn't. In fact, Molly had accidentally made quite a habit of it, and Mycroft had always had to punctuate her arrival with some comment about Mary Poppins. Molly suppressed a grin, admitting that Mary Poppins was probably exactly Mycroft's type of person.

 _Might explain the umbrella…_

That thought made it almost impossible to hide a smile—she had to duck her head as she came up to her usual chair and sat down in it, tucking her feet up under her. But of course, he missed nothing.

"Contrary to popular notions, it seems a long walk out in this nasty weather has actually improved your mood," he remarked, seating himself as well. Their two chairs were not far apart—one armrest nearly touched the other.

"Took my mind off it. Trying not to get…splashed, and everything," she answered, dipping her head, her smile fading and gone. Mycroft, eyes brilliant in the firelight, watched her. Molly didn't mind.

"Erm, has it been steeping long?" she asked, pointing to the tea.

"Just long enough."

"Do you want me to pour out?"

"Only if you'd like," he inclined his head to her.

"My pleasure."

So she poured tea for both of them. Mycroft took his with no cream or sugar. Molly liked both. Soon, she held her cup and saucer up close to her chin, breathing in the scent of English Breakfast (what else, in this place?) and letting her attention drift to the flames.

"So," Mycroft began—and Molly inwardly winced. "As a matter of security—do we have anything to worry about concerning your former fiancé?"

Molly smiled wryly and glanced down at her tea.

"Not at all," she muttered. "Don't think he was ever anything to worry about."

"What about his family? Mother, father, siblings…"

"You've got his file, haven't you?" she glanced at him through the steam of her cup.

"Of course I do," Mycroft answered with a slight narrowing of his eyes. "I know him and his associates on paper. But you've seen them in person, talked to them…"

"No, Mycroft," she sighed, lowering her cup. "They none of them are anybody special."

"That's what we thought about Jim, too." Mycroft's voice resembled a faraway rumble of thunder.

Molly looked at him, then shrugged.

"Well. Everybody missed that one—not just me."

"A fact that still secretly mortifies us to this day."

He spoke frankly, and used the "royal plural" as she mentally liked to call it—but she knew what hid behind all of that. Which is why she managed a smile for him.

"Don't worry," she said. "Not _all_ the men I fall for can be sociopaths."

"Everyone has a type, I suppose," Mycroft gave her a thin smile of his own—and Molly's heart stuttered as she stared at him.

"So what did you mean, a moment ago," Mycroft draped his arms over the rests. "When you said Tom wasn't _ever_ anything to worry about?"

"Dunno," Molly shrugged again, and set her tea down on the table. "I just…I don't think that I…" She paused, trying to smooth her tangled thoughts into coherent strands. She wrapped her arms around herself and frowned into the fire. "I liked him. I mean, he was nice, he was cheerful, he was sweet to me…It was…a nice change." She braced herself up and nodded firmly. "He's a…A nice man. Somebody…I should have been…I mean, I would have been lucky. To have him. As a husband."

Mycroft paused, carefully.

"But?" he asked—keen as a scalpel.

And it felt like it, too.

Tears spilled down Molly's face, and her chest suddenly clenched.

"But he was so full of _nonsense_ ," she cried, her vision blurring over. "Really, he had no sense at all. He'd say the most simple-minded things, all the time—he had no tact, he was so awkward, he'd miss things that were right in front of his nose. He'd forget where he put his keys only to find he'd left them in his jacket. He'd brag about the stupidest things, and then he started telling everyone that we were…that he and I were…But I wasn't nearly ready for that sort of thing!" Molly swallowed and swiped at her face. "So I couldn't think of anything to do except play along with it or…I know I overdid the play-acting; made myself look like a complete idiot. And then my mother heard about it and she…" Molly rolled her eyes, her face twisting again as the tears dripped down. "The stories he'd tell about me," she whispered. "In pubs. The way he talked about me. I heard him. Last night. Talking to a bunch of his mates." Molly shook her head, her entire ribcage constricting like a vise. "He wasn't trying to be…rude. I could tell. He was trying to…I dunno, maybe pay me a compliment. But…" She looked up at Mycroft desperately, but couldn't see him through the tears. "It…didn't _feel_ like that," she gasped.

She dug the fingers of her right hand into the armrest and wiped at her face with her left, shivers running through her.

A soft touch on the back of her right hand.

Cloth.

She sniffed, blinked rapidly and glanced down.

Mycroft was holding out his monogrammed handkerchief to her. The edge of it brushed her skin.

She took it from him, and dabbed her cheeks and her eyes, her fingers shaking again. And finally she could see him.

His razor-sharp aspect had softened. He leaned toward her, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. And, still as a statue, he watched her. As always. It was his way of listening. Mycroft Holmes listened with his whole body.

"Thank you," Molly whispered. She held the handkerchief back out to him. Minutely, he lifted two fingers—and she pulled it back, and tucked it against her.

MHMHMHMHMHM

Sherlock threw another _it's-the-wrong-one_ book against the wall. It let out a deafening _bang_ and slumped limply to the floor.

"Neighbors!" Mrs. Hudson cried, fleeing the room.

"If they haven't come barging through to complain about the _bullets_ in the wall, they're not going to give much thought to a _book,_ are they, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock shot after her, then whirled and started pacing again.

It was no use. He'd searched the entire flat, but The Book was not here. He wanted it. He _needed_ it. It didn't matter if he hadn't even thought of it in the past ten years—he needed it now.

He swore at the couch, kicked John's empty chair—grimaced and immediately repented. One, because it hurt; and two, because it was John. Well, not _really_ John, but. Yes. John's chair. And it didn't deserve to be kicked.

Sherlock knew who _did_ deserve to be kicked. The one who always kept everything of Sherlock's and hid it. The one who most certainly had The Book he wanted.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out," Sherlock called, ignoring his throbbing foot, and grabbing his scarf and coat.

"Oh, dear, but it's raining like mad out there," Mrs. Hudson called from the stairwell.

"I'll take a cab."

MHMHMHMHM

"So you ended it at noon today," Mycroft surmised, still tipped toward her, his left-hand fingers draped over his lips.

"I did," Molly nodded. "Met him at our favorite fish and chips place and gave him back his ring. The ring." She corrected, rubbing her finger again. "We got into a row about it, 'course. Had to go outside on the walk because we were shouting. Eventually, I just had to leave, and go back to work. He texted me a dozen times after that, but I didn't answer. Then it went quiet for a long time, and then…" she half-heartedly chuckled. "When you sent me a text, I thought it was him again. I'm glad it wasn't."

"Ah," Mycroft almost smiled, and glanced down.

"I mean, I'm glad it was you. And not him. I mean."

Mycroft met her gaze again, and inclined his head.

"I know what you meant."

Molly's shivering calmed, and she looked down at the beautiful handkerchief she held between her fingers. She ran her thumb across his initials, embroidered in scarlet. Funny. She'd never realized before that his and hers were the same.

"I know this may not enter your mind at the moment, Molly," Mycroft began. "But…in actuality, this isn't anywhere near the end of the world. In fact, you may find it's very much for the best. Give it a day or two and you'll be right as rain. I doubt you'll even think of it anymore except as a burden that's been relieved. Most…separations…turn out that way, it seems."

A smile flickered across Molly's mouth.

"Should you be talking? I mean, I…don't really know if you could be called an authority on this kind of thing, Mycroft."

She expected him to snort, and sit back in his chair and say something like:

" _Of course not. Nasty, unnecessary business."_

But he didn't. He didn't say anything.

Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at him.

He swallowed, cleared his throat.

Sat back, and looked down at the floor.

And Molly realized—with a sudden, impossible flare of fear—that she may have actually _hurt_ him.

MHMHMHM

Sherlock stopped.

Stopped dead in the center of the dark hallway, right outside a door in the Diogenes Club that stood ever-so-slightly ajar. Firelight spilled through, and he could clearly see inside—right inside Mycroft's personal entertaining space; and from here could enjoy a full picture of the two people seated in armchairs near each other, before the hearth.

Mycroft, his brother, wearing a brown suit and dark red tie—sitting still as a stone, unreadable as a sphinx. And just beside him, curled up comfortably, every angle of her frame attuned to the man opposite her…

Molly Hooper.

Her hair back in a ponytail, wearing a brown striped jumper and black trousers, her feet tucked up under her. Mycroft's handkerchief gripped tightly between her fingers. She'd been crying—it was obvious. But now her tears had evidently been forgotten, because her bright eyes fixed on Mycroft, an intent line between her eyebrows.

And they'd had tea. It stood spread on a small table. But the pot didn't steam, and neither did the cups. They had been sitting here a long time.

Questions barreled through Sherlock's mind—but somehow he couldn't make his feet move a single inch, and his throat and mouth were paralyzed.

"It's true," Mycroft said.

Sherlock twitched—then frowned hard. What tone was that? What kind of tone was that? Soft and careful and—unsure? No, impossible.

"Molly," Mycroft said—and his right hand curled into a loose fist. "It _is_ true. Of course it is. And don't worry. It isn't a cruelty to point it out. All of my associates know that I have always avoided the entanglement of…" He paused, and cleared his throat. _"Caring_ for people. I often cite that it's not an advantage, not in my business. Too dangerous, too many secrets to keep covered, too many loose ends to worry about. But…" Mycroft took a deep, uncomfortable breath. "I have seen what caring does to Sherlock. It thrills his blood, and fires his resolve and his imagination. It keeps him going when exhaustion should knock him to the floor. It makes him sharper, more attentive. It makes him… _better_. In all ways. And so my argument is invalidated."

Sherlock had stopped breathing. He frowned so hard pain started dancing around in his forehead. The back of his throat—and his breastbone—started to hurt. And he couldn't tear his gaze from the two inside that room.

"I have no doubt that you've perceived the truth about _me_ a long time ago," Mycroft went on, even more quietly than before. "I am afraid."

Sherlock's lips parted. But he still couldn't breathe.

Mycroft studied his own right hand upon the rest as he rubbed a seam with his thumb.

"Afraid that I could never make a proper go of it," Mycroft murmured. "And that I am, after all, such an intolerable prat…that no one would actually…" he trailed off, but the ending was clear. "And, of course, the danger of that is so very real…I dare not make the attempt."

Sherlock slowly let his breath out, his heart beating erratically somewhere inside him.

But then she moved.

Molly moved. Her hand. She reached out, _toward_ Mycroft.

She was going to touch him.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he tilted forward, eyes widening…

Molly set her fingers on the cuff of Mycroft's left wrist. Mycroft glanced over at them. But he did not move.

Then, Molly's fingertips ghosted down the back of his hand, slipped behind, and grasped it. Entwined their fingers.

Mycroft stared at what she had just done. He swallowed.

And then his long, pale fingers curled around hers and held on. And he lifted his eyes to Molly's face.

And Looked at her.

Open. _Soft._ And flooded with silent revelation.

Without even the thinnest veil of caution or superiority—stripped of all pretense and arrogance.

Completely. Utterly. Honest.

Sherlock suddenly felt as if he was watching a stranger.

He went cold all the way down to his marrow, and his stomach flipped over three times. His attention wrenched from Mycroft to Molly…

She was looking back at Mycroft. Eyes brilliant and gentle.

And of course—she was _always_ utterly honest.

Something that felt like poison or illness pumped through Sherlock's blood with alarming force. His vision suddenly went scarlet, and he backed up, gritting his teeth, making certain his feet stayed silent. As soon as he was twelve paces from that offensive door he turned on his heel and left the Diogenes Club, completely forgetting the reason he'd come.

 _To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for your lovely reviews! I'm so happy this has captured your imagination. Enjoy!_

CHAPTER TWO

John Watson jerked awake, the sound of raging mortar shells in his head suddenly translating to a rapid banging.

"Gaaahhh…" he groaned, flopping back onto the pillow, his heartbeat pounding, even as he felt his wife grab hold of his arm.

"Somebody at the door," she mumbled.

"Yap, I'll…I'll get it…" John assured her groggily, sitting up, shoving the covers off himself and groping for his dressing gown. After he'd shrugged it on, he blearily glanced at the clock. It was half one in the morning.

 _Bang-bang-bang-bang!_

"Coming, coming!" John called, stumbling out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, trying to make out the outline of the door through the darkness. He reached out and managed to grab the knob, twist it, and pull the door open—

And was almost knocked back into the side wall as a towering _someone_ swooped into the apartment, spraying John with rainwater that cascaded from his coat.

"What…What…" John tried, swiping at his face. He slapped the light switch and the lamps popped on—

To reveal Sherlock Holmes sweeping into his parlor, trailing mud with his footsteps, his hair and black clothes soaking wet.

"Sherlock?" John yelped. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock answered roughly, raking a hand through his dark, sopping curls. John blinked and fought to kick his sleepy brain into gear.

"He's in danger?"

"Yes, grave danger. From me," Sherlock snarled back, his ice-blue eyes flashing.

"What?" John frowned, shutting the door. Sherlock paced more furiously.

"He's got Molly."

 _"What?"_ Mary interjected, coming out of the bedroom and throwing her dressing gown on.

"He's _got_ Molly—what does that mean?" John demanded.

"He's kidnapped her, then?" Mary asked.

"Tosh, that's _nonsense!_ " John answered. "That's not what he means—that's not what you mean, is it?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, nearly wearing a hole in the rug with his strides.

"Holding her for ransom?" Mary guessed, folding her arms. John barked out a laugh and threw his arms out in a wild gesture.

" _What_ is going on here? Mycroft does a lot of things, but I'm pretty sure he's not used to kidnapping pathologists and holding them for _ransom_."

"No, he's…" Sherlock stopped, but didn't look at either of them. "He's… _got_ Molly. They are…friends."

John shot a glance over at Mary. Her eyebrows went up and she shrugged, and quickly shook her head. John turned back to Sherlock.

"Is that…not allowed?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he gave a withering glare to the wall in front of him.

"Sherlock, you're soaking wet," Mary finally said. "Where have you come from?"

"Home, Diogenes Club, St. Bart's, Scotland Yard, here," Sherlock huffed, off-handedly pointing at spots in the air.

"You've been all over London. Tonight," John realized. "What have you been doing?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then turned and threw his hands in the air.

"I looked all over my flat, but I couldn't find the book I was looking for—I knew Mycroft had it. So I went to the Diogenes Club to get it from him but what I _found_ was Mycroft and Molly having tea and holding hands, so I left without speaking to either of them—"

"Wait— _holding_ _hands?"_ John repeated, everything he thought he knew about the universe suddenly tipping sideways. "Mycroft? _Holding hands—"_

"Yes, that is what I just said, John—do try to keep up," Sherlock snapped, spinning on his heel and giving him a narrow, cutting glance that had no effect on John whatsoever.

"I went to St. Bart's to inquire as to how many times Mycroft has interrupted her work schedule," Sherlock went on, rapid-fire. "It seems that he's been a fairly frequent visitor in recent months, and is one of the few people she mentions to co-workers besides her fiancé—and so after that I went to Lestrade to find out _exactly_ how long this has been going on, and after scraping together clues from Lestrade's limited and sometimes faulty memory we were able to calculate that it's been roughly _two years_ —beginning almost the _day_ I forged my death and disappeared to go detangle Moriarty's web."

"Exactly how long _what_ has been going on?" John cut in, stepping toward his friend to try to halt his furious pacing. Instead, Sherlock whirled away from him and cursed.

"This is so _typical_ of Mycroft! He's such an incurable narcissist—he can't even help it! Probably doesn't even know he's doing it—but it _never fails_. I could place a solid bet on it every single time and I'd have more money than I knew what to do with."

"Doing what, again?"Mary stepped closer too, watching him intensely.

"This!" Sherlock cried desperately, facing them and holding his hands out, his wide, vibrant eyes searching their faces as if they should see something that was perfectly obvious. "If I got full marks on an exam, he would get special honors at the top of his class. If I made a book of riddles I'd invented for Mother, he'd go through and write all the answers _in red ink_. If I bought a coat for myself, he would buy one that was better or more expensive. If I found a rare book or an artifact or a tool at a neighbor's sale or an antique shop, he would steal it. If I saw something in a shop window I admired, he would buy it for himself!" Sherlock's voice built in volume and speed and fury. "If _I_ have a singular, unique item of value and he does not have its equal he will take mine from me. He's done it ever since we were boys and he has no reason to stop now."

"Wait, are we talking about _Molly?"_ John suddenly realized. " _Molly's_ the thing he's taken—the thing that's yours that Mycroft's taken."

"Well, _yes_ , isn't that obvious?" Sherlock gestured violently, grabbing his coat collar and thrashing the rain off of it.

"Since when has Molly been _yours,_ Sherlock?" Mary asked quietly, her eyes narrowing at him. "Isn't she engaged to be married?"

Sherlock jerked to a halt.

John's throat choked shut and he stopped breathing.

The bluster left Sherlock's tantrum in an instant. He stared at Mary, and blinked. Blinked again, and swallowed.

"I…" he started—his voice abruptly hoarse. He cleared his throat. John stood very still—watching his friend's frame go unsteady.

"I… _no_. No! Of course not," Sherlock shook his head once, his brow furrowing. "I simply meant that…Molly has so often…She's been helpful and…nearby. When I've—we've—needed her. On a case. It's inconvenient for Mycroft to…To dominate her time. When I might have occasion to…require her opinion." His piecemeal explanation hung in the air. Mary's gaze pinned him.

Sherlock straightened to his full height, looked at John, and his aspect turned stony.

"Never mind. You've got better things to do. Forget I was here." He strode toward the door, opened it himself, and muttered a "Goodnight" right before it slammed shut behind him.

John blew out a long breath and scratched the back of his head.

"Not sure we actually _can_ forget he was here," he muttered, staring at the long line of overlapping, muddy footprints on the rug.

"What was that all about?" Mary murmured.

"Hard to tell, with him," John admitted. "What do you think?"

Mary studied the door, then gave John a wry, sideways glance.

"I have a guess."

MHMHMHM

Sherlock dashed noisily down the dark stairs of John's apartment building, knocking that useless conversation out of his head. He should have known better than to attack John with speculations after waking him from a nightmare about the war, especially after midnight, so soon after getting married and finding out he's a father. And he should have known that Mary wouldn't understand the depth and breadth of the situation and the personalities—she was still a stranger to Mycroft, after all, and new to this circle in general.

It didn't matter that she was absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent correct.

Sherlock shoved the door aside and lunged out onto the sidewalk once more; and the cold, driving rain hit him in the face. He frowned fiercely, flipped up his soaking collar, stuffed his hands in his pockets, lowered his head and marched on.

And she was. Mary was right. Molly did not belong to Sherlock in any sense of the word. Most of the work she did for him, or that she allowed him to do in the hospital laboratory, was against regulations or flatly illegal. Upon his own admission, she had played a part in his illusory death that had been indispensable—the entire operation would have failed if not for her. If anything, Sherlock was technically in _her_ debt. _She_ owned _him_ —not the other way round.

Sherlock ground his teeth, rain dripping into his eyes.

And Mycroft had not planned this. This… _this_ …

Vulnerability.

Weakness.

The coldest, most powerful, most secretive, most aloof man Sherlock had ever known would never purposefully risk a potentially-fatal emotional exposure.

But that Look.

No matter what Sherlock railed to John or to Mary about Mycroft's evil plots to nick things that weren't his just for the fun of it…

 _That_ had been an accident.

She'd caught him off his guard. The way she had an infuriating habit of doing.

And with that Look…

Something familiar resonated deep inside Sherlock's bones.

" _You can see me."_

" _I don't count."_

Sherlock dodged under an overhang in front of a shop, pulled out his phone and began to text, fighting with his slick fingers.

 _ **221B tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. –SH**_

He stood there, waiting. Staring at the bright screen, the rain rushing all around him.

Typing, at the other end.

 _ **As long as tea is provided. –MH**_

Sherlock did not reply. He clicked his phone off, rammed it in his pocket and stormed out again into the night.

MHMHMHMHM

Sherlock sat in his chair, dressed, but also wearing his father's old maroon smoking jacket. It still smelled of pipe tobacco, and though its elbows and collar were threadbare, Sherlock kept it. He hadn't the slightest idea why—and didn't care to deduce the reason—but being wrapped in this article of clothing made him calm, and clarified his thoughts.

The morning sunlight streamed in the window behind him, filling the dusty flat and illuminating the steam from the teapot on the small table before him, just to the left of John's chair. Mrs. Hudson had come and gone half an hour ago, clucking like a hen the entire time she had lingered. Now, the house stood silent, save for the ticking of the clock.

Thirty seconds.

Mycroft would not be late.

Sherlock drew in his breath and held it, his eyes unfocusing as he pressed his fingertips together and tucked his hands under his chin.

The clack of the latch. Footsteps on the stair—and that characteristic _tap-tap_ of the tip of an umbrella.

Exactly upon the hour, Mycroft Holmes strode into the flat. Sherlock glanced at him for half an instant. Grey suit and waistcoat, black shoes, blue tie, black umbrella. All impeccable. Sherlock ground his teeth and regretted the smoking jacket.

"Good morning," Mycroft greeted him. "May I inquire as to the occasion?"

"You require an occasion?" Sherlock asked, his tone low and measured, as he finally met his brother's eyes. Mycroft shrugged.

"Of course not. But your inviting me to tea simply for tea's sake would be—shall we say—highly irregular," he replied, stepping forward and settling himself in John's chair like a cat. He leaned his umbrella against the fireplace. "I might be inclined to wonder whether or not you were ill." Mycroft's gaze lingered on him, and his eyes narrowed. "On second thought, that may not be such an irrelevant question. You were out walking in the rain last night, weren't you?"

"Only briefly, for a case," Sherlock lied, laying his hands down on the armrests. "And _you_ were the one who insisted on tea."

"Aha," Mycroft nodded, then gestured to the tea. "May I…?"

"Mm," Sherlock grunted, shifting in his chair. It was getting harder to sit still.

"Now, what is it you want?" Mycroft asked coolly, over the trickle of the tea. He set the pot down.

"What makes you think I want something?" Sherlock countered flatly.

"Because you do." Mycroft took his tea and saucer in his hands and sat back in his chair. "What. Is it."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, and he glowered at his brother.

"The book."

"What book?"

"You know what book."

"I have literally thousands of books."

"But not books I want."

"What book do you want, then?"

"My book."

"Which book is that?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.

"The book I lent you before I left."

Mycroft glanced at the ceiling and pretended to think. Then he shrugged, made a non-committal face and shook his head at Sherlock.

"Sorry. I don't recall."

"Yes, you do!" Sherlock slammed the heels of his hands down on the rests. "I gave it to you for safekeeping—and _now_ you've just decided to keep it."

"Ah, that one," Mycroft smiled. "Certainly—yes, I know exactly where it is. Perfectly safe. You may come by the Diogenes Club any time you like to retrieve it."

Sherlock canted his head.

"Why can't you just bring it to me?" he demanded.

"In case it may have slipped your mind," Mycroft said lightly, taking a sip. "I'm a relatively busy man. I don't always have time to pop up to the flat, no matter how much I might enjoy our visits."

" _Relatively busy_ keeping tabs on Molly Hooper," Sherlock muttered venomously, his gaze fixed on Mycroft.

Mycroft's eyebrows drew together and he lowered his teacup.

"I beg your pardon?"

"And you _should_ begmy pardon," Sherlock pressed, leaning toward him. "I asked you to look after her while I was abroad—why have you continued that practice now that I've returned?"

Mycroft smiled crookedly and set his tea down with a clink.

"Sherlock, I shall gladly relinquish that duty if I can be assured that you are present-minded enough to do it yourself."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"And now you're insulting me."

"Not at all. You are certainly welcome to have a go at it." Mycroft interlaced his fingers. "But you won't succeed long."

A fire guttered to life in Sherlock's chest.

"And what brings you to that conclusion?"

"You will forget about her," Mycroft said frankly.

Sherlock's breathing hitched. His lips parted—but suddenly, no words would come.

"You never contact her anyhow, unless you need her to do some chore for you." Mycroft studied the worn fabric of the armrests. "And there are times when _weeks_ pass and you don't need her at all. You don't even think of her." Mycroft straightened, and gave him a pleasant look. "So you have my blessing to go right ahead. But as soon as you drop the ball, as it were, I shall gladly pick it up again."

"Isn't that what you're constantly doing?" Sherlock's snarl rumbled in his chest. "What you cannot _wait_ to do?"

"It _is_ my job," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock leaped out of his chair, paced around it and rammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"How often do you contact her?"

"What?" Mycroft picked up his tea again.

"How _often?"_ Sherlock barked, halfway turning to him. "During the week, how often do you contact her?"

"Oh, we exchange texts once or twice a week," Mycroft answered casually. "And we have tea the first Thursday every month."

Sherlock turned and bore down on him.

"And you have clandestine meetings in the dead of night, even though she's _quite_ engaged?"

Mycroft's bright, cool eyes caught his and studied him a moment—Sherlock would _not_ flinch—and then Mycroft smirked.

"How interesting that you are suddenly so eager to defend Tom's honor."

Sherlock's lips tightened and he fought to control his breathing.

"Even more interesting," Mycroft went on, picking up a teaspoon and stirring. "That you knew Molly visited me last evening."

"It's because you're wrong," Sherlock snapped, pointing at him. "I do look after her—my eyes are everywhere in this city. Haven't you learnt that by now?"

"Aha," Mycroft frowned at him. "Curiouser and curiouser."

"What is?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, it's just very curious," Mycroft continued carefully. "That your spies are so very thorough…yet you have no idea that Molly Hooper is not engaged."

The earth stopped turning.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. Running his words back and forth and sideways through his head—testing them, tasting them, pushing and pulling them…

He turned his head, just slightly, to the side, his gaze never leaving Mycroft's.

"Not engaged."

He hadn't meant for it to be a whisper. Yet it was. And he couldn't manage more.

"No." Mycroft's eyebrows went up.

Sherlock swallowed, and shifted his weight.

"When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

Sherlock blinked—and suddenly that fire in his chest flickered again—and heated up.

"How did _you_ know?"

"Why, she told me," Mycroft explained. "Via text first, of course. I offered tea after that, and she came."

Sherlock took half a step back, straightening up.

"Tea."

"She _is_ human, after all, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him. "The promise of some consolation on such an evening is welcome to most people. Also, given her record, her relationships ought to be…monitored. Don't you agree?" Mycroft gave him a sideways, pointed look. Sherlock's stomach suddenly twisted, and his dark, dangerous memories clamored and darted around in the depths of his mind palace. Sherlock swiftly knocked them back into their places and slammed the doors.

"She came?" Sherlock folded his arms over his chest. "You simply… _asked_ her to tea, and she came?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said, as if wondering why this was such a difficult concept. Sherlock sighed again, spun and ran a hand through his hair, then approached the window.

"What did you talk about?" Sherlock wondered—failing at trying to sound nonchalant.

"What—your spies didn't tell you?" his brother sneered.

" _Mycroft!_ " Sherlock thundered—and the panes of glass shivered.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and set his tea down again. Sherlock glared, unseeing, at the empty street below, grinding his teeth.

"We talked about why it happened," Mycroft said calmly. "Miss Hooper and Tom had a row, and she ended it—though not without tears."

Sherlock twisted, and stared at him.

"Tears— _tears_?" he repeated. For all at once, part of his ribs felt hollow.

"Yes," Mycroft nodded.

"A row about what?" Sherlock questioned.

"I am not at liberty to say," Mycroft held out his hands helplessly.

"What does _that_ mean? Why _not?"_ Sherlock cried, storming toward him.

"Unless the information she relates to me concerns your safety, I remain in Molly's confidence," Mycroft answered.

Sherlock threw his head back and barked out a harsh laugh, then swept toward the fireplace, turned on his heel and marched back the other way.

" _No_ , no, no, no—you cannot do this."

"Do what?"

"You know very well what," Sherlock halted and pinned him with a look. "Keep Molly as your _goldfish._ "

"Ha. Why not?" Mycroft asked, amused. "Is she already spoken for?"

The flame in Sherlock's chest billowed, and the hollow bits of his ribcage caught fire.

" _Nothing_ about Molly Hooper even _resembles_ a goldfish—it's entirely foolish of you to entertain that idea—and if you had _half_ an inch of sense you'd realize that. But you're far too busy nursing your ego to realize how _absurd_ —"

"Of course she isn't a goldfish," Mycroft said—his voice low and even. "Molly Hooper is kind, patient, quiet, observant, willful, determined—and in possession of a gentle spirit the poets of old would have praised." His gaze drifted off. "And she is optimistic and gracious beyond sainthood, to give me, of all the people in London, a crippled attempt at offering her sympathy."

Sherlock's breath locked in his chest. He stared at his brother, icy shivers running all over his skin. Mycroft apparently didn't notice the way all the blood and heat drained out of Sherlock's face—he still gazed at the wall, unseeing.

"Since when…" Sherlock started, then cleared his throat and fought to keep his voice even. "Since when have you been in the habit of offering such a long string of…compliments."

Mycroft glanced over at him, a very slight and completely unfamiliar warmth in the edge of his expression.

"I'm not in the habit at all."

Sherlock felt sick, all of a sudden. Rather—his gut had begun to rebel the same way it had all the previous night, and at the moment he abruptly realized he might not be able to control it.

He swept past Mycroft, shoved the door of his bedroom open and went inside. He took off his smoking jacket—much good _that_ had done him!—flung it down and snatched up his coat and scarf. He then grabbed his phone off his bed and stomped back out into the sitting room.

"Lestrade just texted," he said, holding his phone up but not looking at Mycroft.

"I didn't hear anything," Mycroft remarked.

"It was on silent."

"Then how did you know—"

"I've been expecting it and I went to check and he has now texted me," Sherlock retorted, throwing on his coat and slinging his scarf haphazardly around his neck.

"New case?" Mycroft asked placidly.

"Brilliant observation," Sherlock answered back, stuffing his phone in his pocket and heading for the door.

"Thank you for tea," Mycroft called. Sherlock didn't reply.

The moment he was outside, the cool wind biting at him, he pulled his phone out and woke it up. There had been no text from Lestrade, of course. Instead, he composed a new one.

To Molly.

 _ **I have need of the microscopes at St. Bart's. Are they available at the moment? –SH**_

He sent the text.

And kept walking. Walking through the noisy, windy, surging streets of London, hearing nothing and never looking up from the screen.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

 _To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Sherlock kept walking. The moist, restless wind battered at him as he turned corners and trotted up and down stairs. Grey clouds brooded over the entire city. He didn't have to look out ahead of him to see where he was going—he could walk these streets blind-folded if he had to. And the myriad sounds that swarmed around his head alerted him to passing cabs and cars and pedestrians. He had no need to waste eyesight on that when he _needed_ his eyes to be focused on that phone screen.

That screen. He tapped it every time it started to dim. His text message sat there, staring blankly up at him until the words almost became nonsense. It said _"delivered"_ under the text. That word soon lost all meaning, too.

That is, until it unexpectedly transformed from _"delivered"_ to _"Read at 12:28 pm."_

He stopped right in the middle of a cross walk. Fixed on that one word:

 _Read._

All the sounds of London faded to nothing. The world turned to a blur.

 _Read at 12:28 pm_

 _BEEEEEEEP!_

Sherlock jumped and spun around, his ears ringing, his heart crashing against his breastbone.

The light had turned green and he was still standing in the middle of the road. A red Audi's bumper stood just a foot away from his right knee.

Sherlock blinked water out of his eyes, tried to gather himself and leaped onto the walkway, catching his breath. All of a sudden, he felt dizzy. Where was he, exactly? He glanced up and around at the buildings that crowded him, and realized he was quite close to Hyde Park. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked back down at his phone to read Molly's reply.

Except.

She hadn't replied.

There was nothing. Just…

 _Read at 12:28 pm._

"What is the matter?" he muttered, frowning hard. He checked his mobile's reception. Three bars—good enough. Batteries? Halfway full. It was operating correctly. He should receive her answer instantly, if…

If she did, in fact, answer.

Which…

She hadn't. She wasn't.

Sherlock's frown twisted his brow as the screen clicked to dim, then turned black. He slowly slipped the phone into his pocket, drew himself up, and gazed helplessly across the street at the grand stone entrance to Hyde Park.

And he stood there, gripping his phone in his chilly hand, waiting for it to ding at him…

For twenty minutes.

Finally, when his back began to ache, he took a breath, then another, trying to even out the nervous twitch in his muscles.

A park. Fine. Good. It was quiet there, he could lengthen this strides and walk for miles in a relatively straight line without even the possibility of getting mown down by a vehicle. Free to use much more of his faculties for deduction rather than self-preservation.

Fine. A park. Good.

He hopped across and down the way and slipped between the towering gray pillars, into the relative quiet and coolness of the vast, lushly-green park. His heels tapped rhythmically on the wide paving stones, and the wind gusted around him as he stuck his hands in his pockets, put his head down, and let his mind race on ahead of him like a well-oiled train on an electric track.

There were several potential reasons why Molly was not replying to him. It would take him mere minutes, if he wasn't distracted, to exhaust them all.

 _She was busy._

Perhaps, but it was very simple to type the word "yes," immediately after receipt of the text.

 _The microscopes are unavailable_.

Equally as easy to type "no."

 _She had her hands full with an involved autopsy._

But she opened the text—she had her gloves off. Which brought her back to the simplicity of typing "yes" or "no" right away.

 _She was talking to someone very important._

For half an hour? That had never happened before. Molly didn't have long, involved conversations. At least…not that he knew of.

He blinked three times, rapidly, at that—then moved on to the next.

 _She read the text and then forgot about it_.

Unsound. She had never done that before, either. There was every possibility that Sherlock needed the microscopes for an urgent case—though untrue, she did not know that—and she had never been one to forget something important.

 _She knew Sherlock had his own microscope that worked just as well_.

Sherlock's strides slowed, and he gradually lifted his head, his eyes unfocused.

That would mean that Molly was suddenly unwilling, or unable, to allow him into the lab. But if she weren't _allowed_ , she would have said so. Easy enough to type that, as well.

Conclusion:

She was unwilling to share her lab space with him any longer.

Sherlock had stopped walking without realizing it. Fountains sprayed into the air off to his right, but he barely heard them, and barely noted the cold flecks of water hitting his face.

Then, he charged forward.

Speculations as to _why_ that would be the case:

 _Her helping him with his "death" had gotten her in hot water legally, as well as with her superiors_.

Nonsense. Mycroft had taken care of that seamlessly already—at least a year ago, perhaps more. Next!

 _Molly was angry with him._

Sherlock sidestepped some fluttering pigeons, the edge of his mouth twitching.

Not quite sound. The last time they had seen each other had been at John's wedding, and Sherlock had not singled her out to embarrass her at all. He hadn't even been unkind to her boyfriend—though _she_ had been rather fiercely unhappy with _him_ …

Taking stock of every single conversation, Sherlock assured himself that he had not slighted her verbally at all since his return from the grave. He had actually been…kind. As kind as he had known how to be.

So, what remained?

 _Molly did not like him anymore_.

The towering, overshadowing oak just above him creaked and whispered, like an old man half asleep and dreaming. Sherlock stood underneath its vast, dark branches, on the wet grass, having left the walk completely without being conscious of it.

And now he held his breath, standing utterly motionless, turning that thought back and forth in his mind like a dangerously-delicate Venetian glass bulb.

He looked at its curves and edges—this shimmering, ice-cold thought. And assessed its surface and weight. His mind went silent, and one word rose up from the depths of his palace.

Possible.

He swallowed, his mental train moving at a snail's pace now, so as not to derail or take the wrong turning.

The facts to support this possibility:

He had not slighted her at the wedding, but neither had he greeted her. At all. And she had said nothing to him.

He had quite publically complimented _Janine's_ beauty, and given her a flower. But he had said nothing of the lovely color Molly had been wearing, and how it had made her look delicious and happy and radiant. He hadn't even given her a lingering look of pure aesthetic appreciation so that she could see it. Which, even Sherlock knew, was equal with completely ignoring her. In turn, she had looked at him when decorum demanded it. But the rest of the time, she had focused on other guests, and Tom.

Molly had not told him about her broken engagement by way of any medium. Thus, it did not matter to her if she did not see Sherlock the day after something so earth-shaking had happened. She did not need him for comfort.

Comfort? Of course not! He had never given comfort before, to anyone. He had only _caused_ pain, and then bumbled around asking for forgiveness. He would not be the one to turn to for solace. Molly would naturally want someone calm and quiet, who would not try to instantly solve and mend things, or brush it off as something of little import before realizing that the opposite was true. Sherlock knew he was notorious for making emotional situations worse, not better. Anyone who wished the job done properly, seeking a result of peace and contentment, would not approach Sherlock. Instead, she would find a replacement that suited her. One that made her life more interesting yet stable. One that not only could handle any situation with tact and delicacy, but elevated her to a level of importance worthy of her talent. One that acknowledged her.

 _Molly did not like him anymore_.

Possible—quite possible, logically—that her endurance had finally ebbed. That she was weary of constantly _giving_ whilst receiving no benefit or reward herself. Perhaps it was wearing thin, for her, never to be involved in the excitement or glory of a case, and only glimpse the dead bodies and microscope slides and paperwork.

She was tired of it. And tired of him.

 _Bored with him_.

Sherlock realized that his heart was pounding so hard it literally hurt, and pain was needling through all his veins. His skin felt ice-cold, even with his coat on; his throat thick.

 _Perhaps…he was even irritating to her_.

The mere idea of a text from him…

An annoyance.

She saw his text, rolled her eyes and deleted it.

Deleted it.

Because she knew he had his own microscope, and was miffed that he asked for something he did not need.

And she took no pleasure or interest in the possibility of seeing him at all.

No longer…

Fond of him.

 _She was no longer fond of him._

Sherlock sat down. Too hard.

Right in the dirt at the base of the oak tree. His left hand trembled—he clenched it into a fist as his heartbeat raged and his breathing snapped and hitched, and a feeling like ice-cold mercury slid down through his gut and into his blood and stabbed into the center of his chest.

 _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

He pressed a hand to his breastbone, but the panic—yes, panic—kept rising. Worse than the drug-induced near-hysteria at Baskerville, and three times as baffling. His phone stayed silent in his pocket, and he sat there, pressed back against the oak, gasping and struggling as the world tipped on its axis.

MHMHMHM

Ten after six in the evening. Rain threatening again.

Sherlock pushed through the doors of the hospital, fighting to make his strides strong and even, despite how weak and trembling his whole body felt. He flinched at the bright fluorescent lights and the white walls and floors, and the deafening clamor of his shoes against the tiles.

He refused to consider the cause of that onslaught of panic in the park. In fact, it hadn't happened. He would delete all memory of it soon. Especially now that he had gathered his wits back and had gone straight to St. Bart's, observed that Molly had not left at six o'clock as she usually did, and deduced that she was still in her office. He would simply look at her and talk to her about the microscopes. He could see through her easily enough—the truth would be there on her face without any uncomfortable subjects needing to be broached, and he could stop this nonsense, go home, have tea and go to bed.

He headed down the glass-walled corridor, aimed at the double doors at the end, ready to barrel through and call her name—

They clacked loudly, and one swung open. Mike Stamford strode out. He drew up suddenly when he caught sight of Sherlock—Sherlock jerked to a halt.

"Holmes!" Mike beamed. "So good to see you, mate!" He held out his hand. Sherlock made himself shake it, forcefully reminding himself that Mike _had_ introduced him to his dearest friend.

"How can I help you?" Mike asked, searching his face.

"I've come to see Molly Hooper about an important case. Is she in?"

"Ah, no," Mike let go of Sherlock's hand and shook his head. "She's taken the day off today, seems." He lowered his voice and winced. "Apparently she's just got un-engaged and she's taking it a bit hard."

"Aha." Sherlock nodded, attempting to keep his face neutral—but he felt the last bit of strength drain out of his shoulders. "Yes, I did hear of it."

"Poor girl," Mike sighed. "She's really very sweet. Can't seem to pick out a guy who deserves her, though."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Do you mind if I leave something in her office?"

"Sure, go right ahead," Mike smiled again, and slapped Sherlock's arm as he passed. "Cheers!"

Sherlock didn't answer him. He didn't wait to hear Mike pass through the other doors before he shoved through the ones in front of him, with considerably less vigor than he had planned.

The labs stood empty, half the lights off. The door to Molly's office hung slightly open off to his left. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It sounded loud in this deathly stillness.

He stepped forward, entered the dark office, found the lights and clicked them on.

A desk, to his right, filing cabinets against all the walls, a stool, a black padded swivel chair, a lamp. A framed photo of Molly with her father. Her wearing a red Christmas sweater that had white reindeer on it. He'd seen her wear that one at some point…hadn't he?

Nothing else. Just paperwork, somewhat neatly arranged on the desk, and some pens and pencils. He hadn't had a reason to assess this office as he would a crime scene ever before—but now it struck him what a private person Molly Hooper was.

She had not brought personal effects to surround her at the office. She did not want work and life to mingle. Neither did she want her co-workers knowing much about what she did or thought or liked outside of the office. All the signs of someone closing in on herself. And retreating elsewhere.

Oddly, though—he distinctly remembered several more pictures, a colorful calendar, and little knick-knacks being present the last time he'd come in. And one or two pictures that included _him_ , if he wasn't mistaken.

Before the Fall.

Gone, now.

Nothing left behind except a picture of her with her dead father.

And…

Sherlock frowned, and stepped closer.

A four inch piece of blue yarn. It lay right in front of the stand-up picture frame. Carefully, he reached out, and picked it up between his fingertips.

He knew the weave and make instantly. Irish wool. Of the exact color and texture as a scarf Sherlock used to wear—the scarf that he'd left behind in the bloody mess of coat and clothes he'd shed after he'd been dragged off the pavement—

"What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock spun around and inadvertently rammed the yarn into his coat pocket.

Molly stood there, wearing jeans, boots and a cream-colored sweater, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Brown eyes wide and bright and fixed on him.

"What are you doing in here?" she repeated. Sherlock shook himself.

"I…I've just come…" He straightened up. "You didn't answer my text."

"What do you need the microscopes for?" Molly asked, her voice low and careful. "Come to have a look at my DNA?"

Sherlock blinked—frowned—

"No—what? Your DNA—?"

"I've just come from John and Mary's," she interrupted, gesturing stiffly behind her. "They told me you've been all over Town. Investigating me."

"Investigating you?" Sherlock tried, that tilting sensation returning full force as he fought to follow her logic. "No, not at all. I—"

"Then what do you call it?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. "Going from the Diogenes Club to the hospital to John's in the middle of the night, and all the way to Scotland Yard? Asking the _police_ questions about me as if I'm some…some criminal? My texts, my boyfriend, what I like in my tea—"

"I never asked _that_ —" Sherlock corrected—and then saw her eyes flash in a way that stopped his heart.

"So…You really have been doing that," she realized. "Treating me like a case." Her eyes brightened and her eyebrows drew together. "What did I do? What did I do wrong?"

Sherlock tipped forward, but stopped himself from stepping toward her.

"Molly—"

"Am I not supposed to have any friends? Is that it?" she suddenly cried. "Is that what you meant before, when…when you said I should avoid all future attempts at a relationship or something? Because you don't trust me?"

Sherlock's lips parted as the implication of her words slammed into him. Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice rose.

"Jim…Jim got past _you_ too! Nobody can blame _me_ for that— _nobody_ saw that. And…and if I've gone to have tea with Mycroft sometimes in the evenings—howcan you be suspicious of _him?"_ she gestured helplessly. "He's…he's powerful and careful and good, and he _protected_ you more than anyone else could have done. And he's looked after me all the while you were gone because I might have been in danger, and he made _sure_ nothing happened to me, which is more than you ever did."

A violent sting shot across Sherlock's face and throat. Nothing had touched him. But he twitched his head down and away and stared at the bottom corner of the filing cabinet.

Molly's hands came up, and she gripped her own fingers.

Silence fell.

"Never mind," she whispered. "You…You can use the microscopes if you want."

She turned, withdrew, and then vacillated on the threshold. Turned halfway back to him.

"I was at home when I got your text. Washing dishes. Lost my grip on the phone and dropped it in the sink. And I don't…You haven't given me your new number."

Sherlock slowly closed his eyes.

Molly hesitated just a moment, then turned and left quietly, her footsteps pattering toward the door, and vanishing after that same door clapped shut.

Sherlock leaned weakly against the side of the desk, slipped a hand under his coat and pressed it to his side, where a sharp pain kneaded in between his third and fourth ribs.

 _To be continued…_

 _(Please review so I know how I'm doing. Thank you!)_


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Mycroft sensed him even across the room—even with his back turned. Even though he was silent. The Diogenes Club had darkened and quieted this evening, leaving Mycroft alone in his private office, awash in firelight, to enjoy a solitary tea and perhaps a bit of light reading.

Well, those would have been his plans. Not now, of course.

"Do come in, Sherlock," Mycroft called quietly, finishing pouring his tea. "Care for a cuppa?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Mycroft frowned minutely but didn't turn until his cup was full, and he set the pot down on the little table. When he did, he found Sherlock still wearing his coat, standing halfway into the room. His scarf was missing, and his top button on his shirt was undone.

And he was gazing at Mycroft in a striking, open—yet unreadable way. Mycroft focused on Sherlock's face.

"You're very pale," he noted. "Have you finally fallen ill?"

Sherlock still didn't say anything.

Mycroft's being settled—all mirth and teasing faded to nothing. Sherlock did look pale. And his stark eyes almost grey. Sherlock leaned forward, very slightly, his shoulders weakened. And Mycroft waited.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said—his voice unexpectedly quiet and rough. "Have you ever, in all your life…considered the possibility of being my brother, rather than my competitor?"

The bass tones—the heavy words—hung in the air. The fire crackled. All remained still. Mycroft stared at him carefully.

"Does this still concern Miss Hooper?"

Sherlock said nothing. The two men never broke eye contact.

Mycroft let out the smallest of sighs.

"If you must know," he began. "Whatever feelings I may harbor for Molly Hooper are genuine, and based entirely on her own merit." His eyes narrowed. "They have nothing whatsoever to do with _you_."

Sherlock absorbed that. Slowly, part by part. It should have brought clarity—a straightening of the spine. And yet, as Mycroft watched each word enter him, and penetrate him with understanding…

He saw a different change come over him. A shadow. A diminishment. A further paling of his skin, and a distance, yet brilliance, in his eyes.

Mycroft took a half-inch step toward him.

Sherlock's attention drifted to the floor.

"So…" Sherlock said, his tone low and rumbling. "You never…considered me, then. What I might… _Who_ I might…While I was away."

Mycroft listened to each nuance—every lilt of the voice.

Listened to the way his brother stood, and how he breathed, and the way one hand stayed in his coat pocket, holding a small object between his fingers.

And…

He understood.

A dark wave of something cold, empty and… _sad_ …washed through Mycroft, somewhere in the furthest depths.

"What did she say to you?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't shift or look up. He'd been expecting that line of questioning.

"She accused me of investigating her," he said. "Of prying into her personal affairs. As if she had…done something. Wrong."

"That is somewhat true, is it not?" Mycroft pointed out. "You did perform an investigation."

Sherlock blinked once, his gaze still on the rug.

"Yes."

"Mhm." Mycroft finally took that one step forward, and clasped his hands behind his back. "And what was the reason for this investigation?"

Sherlock looked up. Met Mycroft's eyes.

His eyebrows drew together, his eyes became vibrant and shining in the firelight.

He said nothing.

Mycroft stopped breathing.

Time suspended. Neither of them spoke or moved. The fire in the throat of the hearth shimmered, and the light glowed across the furniture.

At last, Mycroft turned around and strode back toward his desk. He paused in front of it, then reached down and picked up a hundred-year-old, worn, forest-green book whose title had long ago been rubbed off. He hefted its familiar, comforting weight, bits of the narration flashing through his mind—he had memorized all of it a long time ago, and the pleasure and memory of the story would never leave him, no matter where the actual manuscript went.

With the book in hand, he turned and faced Sherlock again, and slowly approached him. He came within just a few feet, and held it out to him.

"I believe this is yours."

Sherlock saw it. Studied it for a moment. Then, he reached out with his left hand, and took it from Mycroft as if it were made of glass. He lifted his head, and looked at Mycroft…

A question flashing across his lost gaze like lightning.

"You and I, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him as he withdrew to the table to pick up his tea. "We have always known how to calculate risk versus possible gain. Let it never be said of one of the Holmes' that he was unwilling to take a risk in favor of a gain which is possible, and worth such a risk, beyond any doubt."

Mycroft sat down in an armchair, his back mostly toward Sherlock, and sipped his tea. Sherlock did not stir for almost a minute.

"But…" Sherlock said at last, low and hoarse. "What about you?"

Mycroft smiled quietly, so that Sherlock could not see.

"I never wade in," he said. "Especially when I know there's a better man for the job."

Silence returned to him, instead of a witty remark. Sherlock stood unbalanced. And thus, the undercurrents of the very air began to take Mycroft's words, and turn them into a deep, and unspeakable ache. Mycroft swallowed, his mouth closed.

And then…

"You have always been the better man."

Sherlock's voice settled across Mycroft's shoulders—like the warmth of the late sun in autumn. He swallowed again, and glanced down at his teacup.

For another moment, all was quiet. Then, Sherlock turned, and left the room. Mycroft knew where he was going.

The clock on the mantel chimed eight. And now that no one stood nearby who could see him, Mycroft allowed himself one more nearly-invisible smile.

MHMHMHMH

Molly jumped off the couch, then hopped to a halt on her sitting room rug, her heart accelerating. She glanced at the clock. Half eight. It was dark out. She wasn't expecting anybody—but someone had knocked on her door three times.

That meant it _had_ to be…

Wait.

She hesitated, the floorboard creaking beneath her stocking feet. Odd. Nothing followed. So, if it _was_ , then this was uncharacteristic…

She bit her lip and hurried down the short flight of stairs to her front door. Fighting to keep her breathing steady, she flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open…

Sherlock.

He stood just outside, in the halo of the lamplight, his coat undone, no scarf. He was white—his lips grey—and he wouldn't look at her. He stared, unfocused, at her knees.

"Sherlock," she gasped. "You okay?"

He swallowed.

"Came to give you my new number," he said faintly. "Might need it for a case."

"All…right," Molly said, wrapping her arms around herself. "Come in? I'll just…put it in my phone right now."

She withdrew from the doorway, making room. He stood still, now studying the stairs in front of him.

"It's chilly out," she said quietly, watching him uneasily. "I can…make tea?"

He didn't answer. But he stepped forward, and came inside.

Shivers ran down Molly's spine as she led the way back up the stairs, listening as Sherlock shut the door behind him and trailed heavily up after. She entered the warmth and light of her cozy little sitting room—still messy from dinner—and grabbed her purse off the couch. She dug inside, pulled out her phone.

"All right, I'll be ready for it in just a…" She turned and faced him.

He looked at her now. Right in the eyes. And his breathing—he wasn't breathing right. Unsteady, and tense—and he had no color at all.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" she whispered, going cold and completely forgetting her phone. "Is it Mycroft?"

Sherlock twitched away from her—Molly jumped, her eyes going wide. He closed his own eyes a moment—squeezed them shut—then opened them and once again addressed the ground.

"You…You were right," he said; quiet, careful. "I _was_ conducting an investigation. But I was not investigating you. I was…endeavoring to discover something about my brother."

Molly tried to breathe evenly, even as she gripped her phone so hard she might break it. Sherlock went on.

"And I did indeed find what I had suspected. It coincided perfectly with what I already know about him. Mycroft Holmes…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Is a purposeful, consistent, conscientious and fastidious man. He is also powerful, and wise and careful. In short, everything I am not."

Molly's brow furrowed, but she did not interrupt him. Sherlock's mouth worked for a moment before he found the words to continue.

"In the very brief time I had available to concoct a plan for my death and disappearance, I did everything I possibly could think of to also secure your safety and anonymity. Mycroft discouraged your involvement, citing your inexperience and your naiveté, but I knew how vital you were and that I had no chance of success without you. So I had to insist—in spite of the danger. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and everyone else were safe in their ignorance. But if Moriarty or any of his henchmen learned that you were the chief cog in my machinery, your life would be forfeit."

Molly's bones turned to ice. Sherlock still wouldn't look at her.

"And so I set the most powerful watchdog in Christendom at your doorstep," he murmured. "A man purposeful, consistent, conscientious, fastidious and ruthless enough to destroy any possible threat. A man second only to myself in capability and willingness to bring the very hand of God down upon anyone stupid enough to come near you. And…all throughout my absence," he said, even quieter. "Upon the third Thursday of every month, I would contact my brother to see that nothing had…happened to you."

Molly tried to swallow, tried just to keep breathing. He shifted, as if something sharp was sticking into his side.

"He failed to inform me of your engagement, however. And when I returned I confess that things seemed…off-balance. As if I were a stranger to you who…might not be welcome. In fact, all of London seemed..." He took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. "But Mrs. Hudson was alive, and John was alive, and you…you were alive. So I could carry on, in spite of the changes. I could keep working. Because…"

And finally, he looked at her.

Bright. Painful.

It cut through her heart.

"I…I would have difficulty breathing. Molly. If you had somehow been misplaced," he said. "But…when I'm in London, and you are in London, I worry so little because you're always here." He gestured helplessly. "It doesn't _fit_ in my cognizance…your _not_ being here." He gazed at her a moment, then gave a weak, crooked smile. "I know you've heard me talk to John even after he's left the room for twenty minutes, but John can attest to the fact that, while staring into the microscope, I have delivered whole paragraphs to _you_ about my discoveries, right into the empty air, and when I finally realized you were not, in fact, standing next to me…" He stopped. His nervous gestures stilled. He gazed into her eyes, and his eyebrows drew together.

Then, he turned his head, let out a shattered laugh—and tears spilled down his cheeks.

"I cannot…I cannot do without you," he shook his head, and looked at her with a broken, brilliant earnestness, more tears tumbling. "I've…I've been without any sort of…my entire life—my schoolmates found me unpleasant and offensive, and anyone superficially interested would tear themselves away from me the moment he or she heard me talk for more than five minutes. My parents could never understand me and their _trying_ to was painful beyond reason; my brother could have been my equal and even my...But he enjoyed his own company more than anyone else's, and in fact anyone else's—especially mine—was the height of annoyance. I only had a…I had a dog." He paused, and gulped, tears dripping from his chin. "His name was Redbeard. I could talk to him about whatever I wanted. Until he got cancerous ulcers and my father took him away and had him killed." He met Molly's eyes. "I _had_ to be alone, Molly—don't you see? I didn't have…They didn't want me. You were the first…You. Brought me coffee and…" He drew in another shaking breath. "Stayed."

Molly couldn't speak. Sherlock watched her for a moment, hesitating—

Then his brow twisted, he took half a step back and turned his head away. He sucked in a swift breath, then stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled something out.

"Sorry. I stole this, I think." He sniffed loudly and held it out to her, eyebrows raised expectantly, tears glistening on his cheeks. She stared at what he held.

A piece of blue yarn. The very piece of yarn she'd saved from his scarf, the day he'd come into the lab according to plan, covered in blood, his eyes flooded with sorrow, his whole bearing silent with resolve. Right before he'd disappeared for two whole years. The piece of yarn she'd wrapped around and around her ring finger, day after day after day, in an absent, aching rhythm, while she waited for results to load on her computer…

She stared at it in his hand. But she didn't take it.

He tried to fix that expectant expression onto his face. But his breathing unevened, and his tears still made his eyes vivid.

His fingers began to tremble.

And when he took his next tight breath—Molly felt it hurt him.

"No, no, no—stop," she gasped, tossing down her phone.

She stepped in and frantically caught him around the neck—wrapped both arms around him and pulled him down to her. She buried her face in his collar and gripped him as tight as she could.

"Stop, stop. It's all right," she whispered.

Then she kissed his neck—pulled back and kissed him all over his tearstained face, tasting warmth and salt on her lips.

He gasped—it tore raggedly through him, and he staggered. She backed up a little and took his head in her hands, feverishly stroking his hair back, and nodded through her own blurry tears.

"It's okay," she whispered brightly. "I love you, all right? It's fine."

And she kissed his lips. Three times—each time more fervently than before, her heart swelling to breaking.

He leaned into her, clumsily trying to wrap his own arms around her. She stood on tiptoe, pressed her lips to his cheek again and then held him fast, curling her fingers through his hair and feeling the thunder of his heart against hers. She ducked her head into his collar again, whispering.

"It's okay. I'm not going anyplace. It's fine."

His quivering arms finally encircled her, and squeezed her—and his own head rested in the crook of her neck. For a long moment, they stood there in shivering silence.

"You kissed me," he murmured.

"Mhm," Molly said, muffled by his coat.

He paused.

"You love me."

Molly lifted her chin, just a little.

"Yes."

"Promise?"

Molly's throat choked and she closed her eyes. But she nodded.

"Promise." And she squeezed him tighter.

He drew in a deep, deep breath…

And let out a fathomless sigh. He melted into her—relief poured from him. And then he settled into her arms, saying nothing, as Molly Hooper smiled into his collar.

FIN


End file.
